


Resurgence

by Jennie_D



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Conspiracy, Horror, M/M, Mind Control, Modern Westeros, Past Lives, Psychological Horror, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:35:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27322846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jennie_D/pseuds/Jennie_D
Summary: Westeros is new, Westeros is modern. And all those old dark stories about the magic and death are just stories.Jon Snow is estranged from his family when news of a mysterious illness striking his brother brings him back home. He meets a man who believes in wild things, magic things, horrifying things. Things everyone knows were never real.But somehow, this man seems to be the only one who knows what's wrong with his brother.(Written for Jonmund Halloween.)
Relationships: Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story will have cannon typical horror and violence. Want to provide fair warning.
> 
> Written for Jonmund Halloween.

Tormund shivered. 

The storm raged outside the walls of steel and concrete. He could see it, a giant green mass on the satellite screen, blotting all other readings. If he wanted to, he could take the elevator above ground, get a look at the storm through 6 inch glass. 

But there was no point to that. If he looked, he’d see nothing but a swirling white mass. And it would be colder up there. 

At orientation, the bosses had claimed these far north research stations were impenetrable, unreachable by the wild winds that tormented the barren landscape. But Tormund could hear the wind whistle through the barest cracks, could feel the whisper of ice on his skin.

He thought he’d known cold, all those years growing up. Had been proud of it, cocky. Tormund was a True Northerner, after all, had spent his whole life in the territories. He’d laughed when the interviewer warned him about the harsh conditions, had told her stories about camping in the dead of winter with his cousins. 

But up here, at the top of the world where winter never ended, Tormund had rediscovered the concept of cold. It never let up, never relented, never for a moment. Nothing lived outside of these walls, no herbs, no birds, no insects. It was just them, in this research station, with the cold. 

Well, them and the weirwood. 

He stretched, felt winter snap in his bones. Maybe he could go steal one of Mance’s heavy blankets for a while. It’s not like he’d be back soon to use it. 

Tormund’s boots slapped against the concrete floor as he made his way to Mance’s bunk. He stripped a large goose down blanket from the mattress, wrapped it around his shoulders. 

A bit better at least. 

_Beep._

The low electronic sound echoed on the walls. Tormund sighed. 

_Beep._

One of the sensors was probably broken again.

He padded out of Mance’s room, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders. He twisted and turned though bare hallways, beeping growing ever louder. 

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Finally, he reached the ancient computer, dark screen with neon green lettering bright against it’s white plastic shell. 

ERROR

Tormund groaned a bit. He was in no mood to reprogram anything. 

He reached and pulled the cord from the wall. He felt the distinct electric hum of a screen turning off. 

He scratched at his beard and walked over to the coffee-maker. Karsi had clearly made a fresh pot that morning. Tormund lifted the pot to his lips and downed the dregs. 

The TV was broken again, which meant he had nothing to watch. Loboda was the only one who knew how to fix it, and he and the crew wouldn’t be back for a half day at least. 

Especially since Mance was training his replacement, Styr. They were bound to be extra careful today, take no unneeded risks. Mance, after all, wouldn’t want to look bad in front of someone who could report him to the Institute.

Tormund had already read through the books he brought, had finished them nearly a month ago. He could study, or fix the readout computer. But these days his textbooks seemed to swim before his eyes, and the damn computer always broke again anyway. 

He could masturbate. Tormund hummed thoughtfully. That was an idea worth considering. 

When he’d taken this job, he thought it would be a once in a lifetime adventure. The project involved studying an ancient, mysterious site straight from myths and legends. He’d thought he’d be like the explorers of old, charting his own path through the wilderness. 

But there was no wilderness here. There was nothing here. Except boredom, and loneliness. And the occasional hint of paranoia. 

He sat in the rolling chair in front of the computer, intending to stretch his legs, put his feet up on the desk. He caught his own reflection in the cold black mirror of the computer screen. 

His beard was getting long. Scraggly. An odd feeling stirred in his gut. 

Tormund looked away, unsettled. He’d have to shave soon. Nevermind if his razor had grown dull in the cold. 

He looked, instead over at the digital clock on the wall. About six hours until they returned. Maybe more if they decided to hole up where they were because of the storm. 

It wasn’t even clear why the Institute needed Tormund here. Studying the oldest weirwood on the continent and the ruins surrounding it wasn’t really a job that required a 4th year neurology student as far as he could tell. 

Karsi made sense, she was an archaeologist. Bones, the biologist, made perfect sense. Loboda was in charge of electronics. And of course Mance needed to be there, he was the survival expert helping them all stay alive. 

But no one could explain why Tormund had been sent. A medical student made no sense for this project. No one else at this station could explain why he’d been sent. The Institute simply stated his position was essential, and that was that. 

Tormund snorted. He’d thought it was an honor at the time, being chosen for a secret project by a high level company when he was only a student. But now it seemed more likely they hadn’t had many applicants for this job. 

But someone needed to watch the station during research hours. So every day at the crack of dawn, the others would set out for the weirwood site. And Tormund...Tormund would be left. Watching screens. Organizing notes. Cleaning. 

Bored enough to claw his own eyes out. 

He was beginning to wonder if this whole thing was a psychological experiment. Or a scam. 

Night needed to get here faster. Tormund absolutely treasured the nights. Everyone would come back home, they’d eat dinner together. He’d talk and laugh with Karsi and Mance. Loboda and Bones were harder, surlier, kept to themselves. But Tormund had started to challenge himself, see if he could get them to crack a smile. He’d actually coaxed a grin out of Bones last week. 

Karsi would show Tormund her excavation photos, would sometimes talk Bones into showing off his samples. She’d talk about her wildest theories, why she thought the ancients worshipped weirwood, about the standing stones that circled the excavation site and the strange face carved into the bark. She’d show him scans of the bones they’d found buried in the caves below the tree, strange and delicate skeletons. 

Bones, when he was in the right mood, could talk at length about the weirdwood’s unusual root systems, about symbiotic fungal networks, about his mad theory that trees could pass basic environmental data to each other. 

Sometimes Mance would share theories of his own, stranger theories. He would tell bizarre tales he’d heard in his army years. Or would tell stories of magic and the old North, the same stories Tormund had grown up hearing. And Karsi would laugh, and Bones would scoff, and Loboda would...well Loboda would mostly just glare. 

But this place was almost bearable when they were all here. At night, this remote station at the top of the world almost felt like home. 

Tormund sighed. He would miss Mance when he hopped on the helicopter Styr had flown in on and went back to civilization. He knew all of them needed to rotate out eventually, for their own health. And he was glad Mance would get to go home. But the new security expert seemed even surlier than Bones. Apparently Loboda knew Styr, they’d been stationed together on remote projects before. And to be honest, anyone Loboda thought was good company was likely fairly dull. 

Tormund glanced over at the clock again. Only five minutes had passed. 

Well that settled it. Needed to pass the time somehow. Masturbation it was. 

He had just started to unzip when, directly over his head, he heard a loud bang. 

His head snapped up quickly. 

He glanced at the weather monitor across the room. The green blob still engulfed the station. The storm was still raging. 

They couldn’t be back yet. The storm had started after they’d set out that morning, they’d never risk traveling back when the windspeed was so high. 

Tormund stood, scratched the back of his neck as he stared at the ceiling. Maybe the storm had damaged something above groun-

The intercom on the wall crackled to life, a fuzzy distant voice barely audible through the static. “-ormun...et...own.”

That was Karsi’s voice. Tormund rushed to the wall, picked up the receiver. “I’m here, Karsi. Repeat?”

The voice was a bit clearer this time. “Tormund, let us down. Elevator activa...roken on our end. Let...s...own now. Right now.”

“Got it.”

His mind whirred as his boots slammed into the concrete, jogging to the elevator. Why were they back early? Mance would usually insist on not traveling in such weather.

Something was wrong. 

The elevator buttons chilled his fingers as he punched in the code. The whir, the old grind of the well worn elevator gears started to sound. 

It was traveling up the shaft. Faintly, he could hear the doors slide open above him. 

What if someone had gotten lost in the storm? What if someone had gotten hurt?

The seconds ticked slowly as it traveled back down. He stared at the crack in the elevator doors, willing them to open. 

Finally, after an age, they did. 

Tormund found himself staring down at Karsi. Her skin was dark from the cold, her eyes blown wide. Tormund glanced up at Mance. His expression was grim. Bones shuffled out of the elevator, murmured something about taking care of an injury, walked away quickly.

Loboda stood behind them all, head bowed. 

He was carrying a body in his arms. Styr’s body.

Styr had been stripped of all protective gear, skin bare and blue. 

Tormund snapped forward, helping Loboda carry the load. “Come with me, bring him to sick bay.”

But Karsi was shaking her head. “It’s too late for that.”

Tormund felt something in his chest sink. 

He reached for Styr’s wrist, felt for a pulse.

Nothing. 

The palms of Styr’s hands were raw, bloody.

Loboda was gasping out words. “He’s been, he’s been dead since, he’s been dead-”

He couldn’t finish the sentence. Loboda and Styr had been stationed together before, for nearly two years. They were close. 

Tormund put a gentle hand to his shoulder. Did his best to meet Loboda’s gaze. “Let’s bring him to sick bay anyway. Lay him down.”

Loboda nodded, buzzed hair dark in the low light. Tormund took hold of Styr’s feet, and slowly they made their way through winding hallways. Karsi and Mance trailed behind them, saying nothing.

Styr’s ice skin leeched the warmth from Tormund’s hands. 

Finally they lay Styr’s cold body down on the cot in sick bay. Loboda pulled a steel chair next to the bed, sat and stared at Styr’s unmoving face. 

Tormund met Mance’s eyes. They were hard. 

The older man nodded to Karsi, and the three of them shuffled into the hallway. 

Tormund closed the door behind him. Loboda needed a minute to mourn. 

“What happened?”

Karsi let out a low, shaky breath. “We were scanning the weirwood’s root system when the storm hit. We decided-”

“I decided,” Mance cut in, voice heavy with guilt. 

“We decided,” Karsi continued. “We decided to take shelter in a small cave near the base of the weirwood until it passed. We didn’t think we could make it back to the vehicle safely.”

She took another breath to steady herself. Tormund glanced back to sick bay. Through the crack between door and doorframe, Tormund could see Loboda sitting. Still staring at the corpse, eyes wide and empty.

“When we were down there, ice was still coming through the opening. Styr went further into the cave to see if there was a comfortable spot we could all sit. And then -”

Her words cut off, voice strangled. 

Tormund tried not to be impatient. “Then what?”

Her voice, usually so sure, was full of pauses. “It’s...it’s hard to describe.”

Mance cleared his throat. “There was a hum.”

Tormund turned to him, confused. “A what?”

“A hum. We all heard it.”

“Felt it more than heard it,” Karsi cut it. “It felt...I don’t know. It felt like being scorched. Or stretched. Or...something. It vibrated. The air smelled different, charged. Like moss, or maybe blood.”

Frustration was clawing at Tormund’s mind. “What does any of this have to do with anything?”

“Styr was closest to it,” Mance continued. “I went in after him. I didn’t see anything, just a light, but it felt…” the older man trailed off, eyes settling to stare at nothing. 

Tormund pushed his shoulder a bit. “Mance!”

He shook himself. “Sorry. Styr went into a deeper part of the cave, and something felt wrong, so I went in and pulled him out. But he was rambling. Wouldn’t stop rambling, didn’t even sound like words. And he didn’t want to stay in the cave.”

“He started to strip,” Karsi said. “We tried to stop him, but he fought us off. He was single minded about it, wouldn’t be stopped. Punched Bones in the face, man’ll have a hell of a shiner. And when he was bare he just...he walked out into the storm.”

Tormund stared at her. A storm up here could kill in mere minutes. 

“We went right out after him,” Mance’s voice was quiet now. “Tried to pull him in. But he had latched his hands onto the weirwood’s trunk, like he was frozen there. Was just staring into the carved face. It took all four of us to pull him off. And by the time we got him back in…”

His voice trailed off. Tormund rubbed a hand over his face. 

It took him several minutes to find his voice. “You realize this sounds mad?”

“I know how it sounds. But it’s what happened.”

Mance cleared his throat. “There’s protocol for this.”

Tormund sighed and nodded. “Right, what do we have to do? Contact the Institute I assume.”

“Something else as well,” Mance said. “As head of security, this falls under my responsibility. And when I was given this job, I was given certain instructions.”

Karsi looked at him sideways. “You were given instructions we don’t know about?”

Mance quieted again, seemingly trying to figure out how to say his next words. That blank quality was back in his eyes.

Impatience got the better of Tormund. “Damn it Mance, what do we need to do? We can’t leave the body in that room with Loboda forever.”

Mance came back to himself, cleared his throat. “I was told that anyone who dies at this station must be-”

A loud crash sounded from the room behind them. 

Tormund whirled around. Through the cracked door, he could see Loboda’s chair, overturned. Empty.

His pulse quicked, his mouth went dry. “Loboda?”

They could hear slow, shuffling steps behind the door. 

Tormund’s fingers brushed the steel of the door, meaning to push it open. He hesitated. “What happened, friend?”

Mance’s eyes were fixed to the door, fear was building on Karsi’s face. 

“Tormund,” she whispered. “Tormund, maybe we shouldn’t.”

His hand hovered on the chilled steel. Slowly, he began to back away from it. 

The muffled steps came closer, closer. 

“We…” Mance cleared his throat, forced his voice out of a hushed whisper. “We need -”

The door burst open, the knob breaking as it slammed into the concrete wall.

Tormund choked down a scream.

Styr stood there, somehow. His skin was grey with death. His eyes frozen blue, full of nothing. But still he stood. 

Loboda was bleeding on the floor. He wasn’t moving. 

Styr growled. 

Tormund’s heart slammed against his ribs, shocking him into action. 

“Run!”

The three moved as one, sprinting to the other end of the hall, to the elevator. 

Karsi reached it first, slammed her hand into the buttons.

Styr wasn’t lumbering anymore. He seemed just behind them, growling and spitting. Tormund could practically feel his foul breath blowing down his back. 

“Come on, come on!”

They heard a grinding sound. The elevator doors were stuck. 

“Fuck!”

Mance grabbed a steel broom handle and tried to pry the doors open. Tormund grabbed a wooden chair, threw it at Styr as he ran towards them. It knocked him off his feet, and the corpse scrambled to stand.

“Bones!” Karsi shouted suddenly. “We’re missing Bones!”

Fuck fuck fuck. “Bones!” Tormund screamed. “Bones, where the fuck are you!?”

Bones stuck his head out from the bathroom door, on the end of the hall. 

“What the fuck are you yelling abo-”

The words died in his throat as he caught sight of Styr. 

The living corpse caught sight of Bones. He growled. 

“What the fuck, what the fuck. Seven fucking hells, what the fuck-”

“Bones, get into the infirmary!” Karsi shouted. “There’s a vent in the ceiling, you can climb up and meet us topside!”

Bones didn’t need to be told twice. He sprinted towards the infirmary with barely a second thought. 

Styr took after him, but Bones was far ahead. He made it to the door easily, swung it open, dashed inside. 

Tormund nearly breathed a sigh of relief. 

Then he heard the scream.

“Bones!” Karsi shouted. “Bones, what happened?”

The door swung open. 

Loboda was standing now. His skull caved in, his face coated in his own blood. His eyes glowed that odd blue.

He was slamming Bones’ head into the doorframe, over and over and over, splattering blood across the walls. 

“Tormund, for fuck’s sake, help me get these open!” 

Tormund turned away from the horrific scene, grabbed hold of the elevator doors as Mance wedged the pole between them. He pushed with all his effort, strained with all the strength he had. 

He could hear the living dead, charging back up the hall. 

The doors opened, just enough.

“Get in, get in!” Mance was screaming. 

Karsi slipped into the doors, Tormund squeezed in behind her. 

The terrible growls were almost upon them. 

At the last moment, Mance slipped in, the heavy doors catching the corner of his coat as they slammed shut. 

For a moment, they all stood in quiet shock, breathing heavy in the low light. 

Then they heard a bang against the steel doors. They jumped back.

“Seven hells,” Karsi whispered. “Seven hells, what happened to them?”

“Let’s not wait to find out,” Tormund breathed. He pressed the up button. They heard the tell tale sound of gears grinding, waited for the ancient thing to carry them up. 

“Gods, of all the times for this heap of shit to break down,” Karsi muttered. 

Tormund ran a hand through wild hair, trying to come up with a plan. “Mance, the helicopter Styr came in on, the one you were supposed to pilot back to base. Can it hold all three of us?” 

But Mance was staring, staring at the shine of the steel doors, at the perfectly round buttons of the elevator.

“Mance! Can it hold all of us?”

There was another bang on the elevator doors. The three of them flinched. 

Mance finally met Tormund’s eyes. There was a thin trickle of blood dripping from his nose. 

“I - the helicopter - yes - I think so. If we get rid of all the excess weight, I think so.”

“Okay,” Tormund nodded, relief flooding his senses. 

But Karsi was hesitant. 

“Are you alright to pilot it, Mance? You seem - “

“I’m fine,” Mance insisted.

“But you seem-”

“I’m fine,” he said, more harshly. He wiped at his nose, wiped the blood away. “I can fly us out of here, I’ve been piloting helicopters since I was 16. I could do it with my eyes closed.”

The elevator started moving up, slowly slowly. 

“Okay,” Karsi breathed out. “Okay. Tormund, when we get to the top, take Styr’s discarded gear from the ice rover. It won’t do us any good if you freeze to -”

The grind of the elevator stopped. They all turned to stare at the control panel. 

They had barely moved. They were stuck between floors. 

Tormund let out a shaky breath. 

There was banging, banging, more banging on the lower end of the doors. The crack between them shifted, widened slightly. 

They were going to force their way in.

Tormund reached for the emergency hatch. “We’ll have to climb up. Mance, help me get this open.”

Mance was staring at the doors again.

“For fuck’s sake, Mance!”

The older man shook himself and rushed over, helping Tormund throw the rusty hatch open. 

“Mance, you go up first,” Karsi said.

He looked almost offended, “I should-”

“You’re the fucking pilot, and we need you to survive to get out of here, go fucking first!”

The older man obliged. Tormund helped boost him up, get him through the emergency hatch, on top of the elevator. 

When that was done, Tormund turned to Karsi. 

“Now lets-”

And suddenly there was a clunk, and Karsi fell forward, was pulled back. She screamed. 

Styr had forced his hand between the doors, had grabbed Karsi by the ankles. 

“Karsi!” Tormund screamed. He reached for her, desperate. 

More grey hands were reaching in, pulling her back, back, back. Her body was banging against the metal, one leg sticking out at an odd angle.

“Go!” she screamed. 

“I won’t leave-”

“Go Tormund! Go!”

He reached for her anyway, grabbed onto one hand. 

But then the crack between the doors widened. Through it, ice blue eyes bore into Tormund. 

Grey hands latched onto Karsi’s legs, with impossible strength twisted her from Tomund’s grasp.

Karsi was pulled, screaming, from the elevator. 

He didn’t even have a moment to grieve, to breathe. Tormund leapt for the hatch, reached for Mance’s outstretched hand. Pulled himself up. 

The moment he was on top of the elevator, he lunged for the emergency ladder. 

“Climb Mance! They’re right behind us!”

They scrambled up, racing for the light at the top of the shaft. 

They could hear scrapes and growls and thuds behind them. In the corner of his eye, Tormund saw grey skin. 

The corpses had made it on top of the elevator. 

Finally they burst into the light. “Run, boy!” Mance was already tearing towards the helicopter. 

Tormund raced towards the ice rover, took the barest second to grab Styr’s discarded boots and parka. 

But he didn’t have time to put them on. He dashed across the snow in his stocking feet, charged with adrenaline, feeling his skin burn. He hoped he wouldn’t feel frostbite later. 

He could hear growls somewhere nearby. 

As he approached the helicopter, Mance already had the roter going. “Get in! Get the fuck in!”

The cold air burned in Tormund’s lungs as he ran. 

“Don’t look behind you, just run!”

Mance sounded panicked. Tormund’s vision tunneled to the handle on the helicopter door. 

He thought he could feel cold hands grabbing at his back. 

“Tormund! Go!”

He reached the helicopter, threw the door open, jumped in and slammed it shut. 

Styr was just behind him, lunging at the cold metal. 

“Get us in the air, Mance, get us in the air!”

“I’m fucking trying!”

Styr was banging his head into the window. The glass started to crack.

“Mance!”

And then they were airborne. 

Styr was thrown aside as they charged upwards into the air, beyond his grasp.

Tormund let out a long breath. 

The helicopter was tossing and turning, dancing on the storm winds. The motion would usually have turned Tormund’s stomach. But in this moment, he had never felt such relief. 

“Fucking hell Mance.”

“I know,” the older man said seriously. “I know.”

The helicopter climbed, higher and higher, until the base was barely a speck on the horizon. 

They began to move east, to the open water. He could barely see it through the blowing snow.

Tormund shifted his body into the parka he’d stolen, laced his feet into the boots, strapped himself in properly. Tried not to think about what he’d just seen. 

Karsi was gone. Styr had killed her. It was impossible. 

He kept seeing Karsi screaming in the elevator as he stared out at the water beneath them. 

After several minutes of silence, Tormund found his voice. 

“What was that? What happened to them?”

Mance didn’t reply. 

“I mean, it was like something out of an old movie, or one of those folk stories we grew up with. What the fuck happened?”

Mance still didn’t reply. 

The helicopter dipped, and Tormund’s stomach swooped unpleasantly. 

“What the fuck Mance?! Try to keep it steady!”

“Tormund?”

Mance’s voice was strange, uncertain. Tormund turned to look at him.

The blank look was back in Mance’s eyes. 

He was staring at the controls as if he’d never seen them before. 

Tormund’s stomach dropped as Karsi’s concerns came back to him. 

The helicopter was dipping lower.

“Mance! Snap out of it, I don’t know how to fly this damn thing!”

But Mance just kept staring at him oddly. 

“Tormund I - I don’t - what - what happened to your beard?”

The helicopter was dropping lower, lower. Warning alarms were starting to beep. 

Tormund grabbed Mance by his closest shoulder and shook him. “Fly this fucking thing!”

“I don’t know where the fuck we are!”

Mance’s voice was panicked, his eyes full of confusion. A steady stream of blood flowed from his nose. 

Warning alarms were sounding louder, louder. The icy water was almost upon them. 

Tormund grabbed the emergency kit, took hold of Mance, and braced for the crash. 


	2. Homecoming

The glass of the window was cold under Jon’s fingertips as he watched the world rush by. 

The roads and trees and houses were growing more familiar. He felt dread sink into his stomach, sitting on top of the worry that had already settled there. 

“Jonny,” Yrgitte’s voice sounded from the van’s driver’s seat. “Do you want to stop, grab coffee or something before we head to the hospital?”

He shook his head silently. 

“I mean, I’d like a breakfast sandwich or some sausages,” Grenn piped up from the back of the van. “And I’m sure Orell would like something.”

“I don’t know,” Orell seemed to be weighing his options. “Any good pastry places around-”

“Shut it,” Ygritte cut in. “We can get you two sorted after we drop Jon off.”

“But I’m hungry now.”

“Grenn, if you don’t shut your mouth, I will stop this car and shut it for you.”

“It’s alright,” Jon sighed, turning away from the window to look at his mates in the backseat. “We can stop beforehand.”

Grenn was half pressed against an amp, while the neck of Jon’s guitar was clearly digging into Orell’s knee a bit. His friends had agreed to make this long, uncomfortable drive. The least he could do was make sure they were well fed. 

But Ygritte was shaking her head. “It’s only 15 minutes to the hospital. These two can wait. We can drop you, and then find a diner or something. I’ll bring pancakes back to the hotel. Or a sandwich. Whatever you want.”

Grenn grumbled a bit, but settled back against the amp. 

This was one of the times Jon appreciated Ygritte’s overprotectiveness. His stomach was too in knots for food right now. And he’d rather get this over with. 

The radio was starting to fuzz out; the hills interfering with the reception. Jon flipped the dial, once, twice, heard a familiar jingle drift over the airwaves. 

_This is Wintertown 101.7, The Sound of the Nort-_

Jon turned the radio off. 

He turned back to stare out the window. The trees were the same, the tall serious pines he’s grown up with. The winding roads, the old brick and wooden houses. It was all the same. As if he never left. 

He didn’t think it would be like this. When he had stormed out on Ned Stark, stormed out on his family...he thought he could come back on his own terms. Return when he was ready. 

Not return for something so horrible. 

His stomach twisted again when he thought of the phone call. Robb’s grim voice, Arya crying, Bran - 

“Hey,” Ygritte said softly. “You okay Jonny?”

Jon nodded. He wasn’t okay, not really. But he always appreciated Ygritte’s attempts to draw him out of his head. 

All too soon, they pulled up at Osric Memorial. Jon’s hands shook as Ygritte pulled into the parking lot. 

She squeezed the van into a space near the front. Turned off the engine and looked at Jon for a long moment. 

Jon shifted uncomfortably. He could feel the eyes of his friends on him. None of them seemed to know what to say. 

“Are you sure you don’t want us to go in with you?” Ygritte said quietly. 

He nodded. “I’ll be fine. Don’t want to drag you all into it.”

“Mate,” Orell said from the backseat. “We want to be here for you. It’s no trouble.”

Jon looked away, covering the emotion pricking at his eyes. He flipped down the sun visor, took a good look at his own face. 

He’d shaved this morning, gotten rid of his usual 5 o’clock scruff. He’d washed his face, made sure there were no traces of old post-show eyeliner. He looked down at his fingernails. He’d removed the dark polish carefully, leaving only hints and shadows behind. 

He was wearing the best plaid shirt he owned, his nicest jeans, dark boots that were only a little bit beat to shit. 

But he knew his hair was longer than his family would like. Knew if he rolled up his long plaid sleeves at any moment, he’d get a lecture about tattoos. 

He looked at his ears. He’d taken most of the piercings out, but the bar across the top of one ear was too new. He’d had to leave it in. Jon could already hear Catelyn Stark’s pointed comments about how he didn’t look “presentable.”

Jon sighed. He turned back to Orell. “Can I borrow that knit cap you were wearing yesterday?”

Orell and Grenn spent the next few minutes rummaging around their feet, shifting aside old food wrappers and paper cups. Soon enough, Orell was handing the hat over the seats. 

Jon pulled the simple black knit cap over his hair, made careful adjustments. When he was done, his hair was hidden, as was any trace of a piercing. Maybe someone would give him a hard time about wearing a hat indoors, but that was better than the alternative. 

He looked out the window, towards the front door of the hospital. 

“I can drive us around for a bit longer,” Ygritte was saying. “If you want to talk about it, get your head together.”

But Jon shook his head. He couldn’t put this off any more. As much as he wanted to run, he needed to face it. 

He opened the door, started to get out. 

“Jon,” Ygritte’s voice called after him. 

Jon turned. Her eyes were kind. 

“We’ll be back at the hotel with pancakes. Call me whenever you want to leave, and I’ll be here, quick as I can.”

He nodded. She smiled softly, leaned over the seats to tuck a stray lock of hair into his hat. 

“It’ll be alright. I promise.”

He just nodded tightly. He was afraid if he looked at her too long, he’d start to cry.

He drew together his courage, closed the car door, and began the long trek to the hospital entrance. 

* * *

Jon made his way around the winding corridors, trying to figure out where he was supposed to go. He followed a series of confusing signs for a long time, irritated at least a few receptionists. Finally he saw it, in big red letters. 

TRAUMA CENTER

He swallowed heavily and made his way to the front desk. 

“Excuse me,” he said to the older woman sitting behind the computer. “I’m looking for Brandon Stark?”

She nodded and began typing. After a moment, she frowned. 

“Brandon Stark has been stabilized and moved to our private wing.”

Jon shifted a bit in embarrassment. Of course, he should have guessed that. 

“If you give me your name, I can see if you’re on the list of approved family visitors.”

He cleared his throat. “It’s Jon Snow.”

“Do you have identification?”

He pulled out his wallet from his back pocket, flipped it open, handed her his Provincial ID.

She started to type again. After a moment, the computer beeped again. Her frown deepened. 

“You aren’t on our list Mr. Snow. I’m afraid I can’t let you in.”

Oh fuck. Jon hadn’t even considered this problem.

“It uhh, it might be under Jon Stark.”

The old woman looked at him sharply. Jon shriveled a bit under her gaze. 

“That isn’t the name on your legal identification.”

“No...but look...I have an old ID with the Stark name on it.”

Jon wished, suddenly, that he’d taken some of his old fancy tailored clothes with him when he left home two years ago. It would probably help his case if he looked the part, looked like a Stark.

“I’m afraid without current legal identification, I can’t let you in.”

“Please, just look, I-”

“Jon?”

The voice behind him sounded like home. 

Jon turned quickly. Standing by a vending machine, looking just as he had on the day Jon left, was his brother. Robb.

They crossed to each other quickly, threw each other into a hug.

“It’s good to see you,” Robb was saying, over and over. “It’s so good to see you.”

Jon sank into the hug. “I missed you. I’m sorry, I-”

Robb pulled back and hushed him quickly. “Nothing to be sorry about.”

He’d nearly forgotten how his brother could make you feel accepted effortlessly. Phone calls didn’t do Robb justice. 

Robb’s hand was solid and comforting on Jon’s shoulder. His eyes were warm. And for a moment, Jon basked in the glow of the reunion, of the simple happiness of being with his brother again. 

But then the hospital intercom sounded, and the reason for the visit came crashing back.

He braced himself. “How is Bran?”

Robb’s face crumpled. “He’s out of surgery, but they still don’t know why he won’t wake up. Or why he collapsed in the first place.”

“Collapsed? I thought he fell?”

Robb sighed. “That’s what they thought at first because of the degree of head trauma. But turns out the security cameras caught it. He was playing in some old ruins and he just collapsed. They think maybe he had some kind of seizure.”

Jon breathed in hard. “Has he woken up at all?”

Robb shook his head grimly. “Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

Jon looked over his shoulder at the reception desk. “I actually need you to register me as a visitor.”

Robb’s eyebrows furrowed together. “I did, your name should be on the list.”

“It’s - uh well - it’s the wrong name.”

Jon handed Robb his ID a bit lamely. Robb took it, looked at it for a long time.

“You actually went through with the name change.”

Jon rubbed the back of his neck, cleared his throat. “Yeah, about a year ago.”

Robb looked up at him, held Jon’s gaze for a long moment. Jon broke off first, stared at the floor. He knew this would be hard. 

But after a moment, Robb simply clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you on the list.”

* * *

The private wing of Osric Memorial was notably nicer than the rest of the facility. The paint was fresh, the equipment new, the chairs in the waiting room comfortable. Every speck of the place practically screamed money. Ancient, connected to royalty, untouchable money.

Jon found himself feeling out of place as he and Robb wound through the hallways. He was aware of his slightly frayed clothes, his scuffed boots. Aware of how they looked next to Robb’s collared shirt, shiny shoes, designer watch.

This had been his world once...but that was a long time ago. And to be honest, he’d never fit in it that well in the first place. 

Suddenly, Robb stopped. “Wait here. I’m going to go see if you can go in.”

Jon knew what that was code for. _I’m going to go see if my mother’s in the room._

As he stood there alone, suddenly Jon felt ten years old again. Golden Robb helping him, the family regret, get through the day. Helping him avoid the judging glare of Catelyn Stark. 

It was harder than ever to look back on those days now, knowing how unnecessary all of it had been.

Robb poked his head out of the room. “Come on in, Jon,” he said somberly.

Jon tried not to bring old resentments with him. This wasn’t the time. 

He entered the room, and his breath caught. 

Bran was lying there in a white hospital bed. There were tubes running into his wrists, onto his chest, down his throat. A whole host of machines beeped around him.

He looked so small. 

“Gods,” Jon breathed, feeling the tears fall. 

He sat by a chair near Bran’s bed, took one of his hands. The palms were scraped and bloody, the skin ice cold. 

Robb was brushing the hair back from Bran’s forehead. “Let’s make you presentable,” he whispered quietly. Robb was shaking a bit, almost seemed to be shivering.

Jon felt frozen. He didn’t know what to do. 

“They say he might be able to hear us,” Robb said. “If you want, I can leave you alone for a bit. If you...if you have anything to say.”

He felt himself nodding. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, that’d...that’d be nice.”

Robb simply nodded once and walked to the door. “I’ll be back in fifteen. Take all the time you need, Jon.”

Then the door was closing, and Jon found himself alone. 

He simply sat and stared for a moment. Gods, why hadn’t he come home before? Just to visit?

“Hey Bran,” he finally managed. He forced the words from his dry throat. “It’s good to see you.”

The machines beeped steadily in answer. 

“I um…” Gods, what was he even supposed to say? The machines beeping around Bran were deafening. 

Jon cleared his throat. “You mentioned on our last phone call you wanted to hear my band play sometime. Well they’re all here, in town. I could bring them to meet you, if you want. We could sing you something.”

There was no answer. Of course there was no answer. 

Gently, he reached out to squeeze one of Bran’s hands. It was ice cold. 

And suddenly Jon was sobbing. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m sorry I never came to visit. I’m so sorry Bran. If you can hear me, I love you. And I’m so sorry. Jon’s sorry.”

Suddenly, he felt a flash of warmth, thought he felt Bran’s fingers flex into his own. He looked up sharply. 

But Bran’s eyes were still closed. The machines were still beeping steadily around them. 

Jon sighed through his tears. “I wish I knew how to help you. I wish I knew what to do. I wish -”

He heard the scrape of the door opening. Had it been 15 minutes already?

But when he looked up, his mouth went dry. It wasn’t Robb standing there.

It was Catelyn and Eddard Stark. Both staring at him in shock.

Jon stood quickly. “H-hello. Robb said I could - I wanted to visit Bran.”

There was a brief pause, but Catelyn found her voice quickly. 

“This visiting hour is for family.”

Jon flinched. 

Ned sighed. “Don’t start with that now, Cat.”

She spun towards her husband, pointing at Jon. “He has made it quite clear that he doesn’t want to be part of this-”

“It’s okay, “ Jon said quickly, backing away from the bed. “I’ll go get some food, come back later.”

Catelyn looked relieved. 

As Jon shuffled from the room, he glanced at Eddard’s face. He selfishly thought, he hoped, that the man he’d believed was his father for so many years would call to him, bring him back into the room, hug him. Tell Jon he should stay. 

But he didn’t. 

* * *

Jon spent the next 15 minutes pacing around the empty private cafeteria before Robb found him. 

“I’m sorry,” Robb started with a sigh. “Things have been so intense for the past few days. I should have prepared them more, made sure this wouldn’t happen. This is my fault.”

While Jon did wish Robb had smoothed the way for his arrival a bit...this was very clearly not all Robb’s fault. So Jon just shrugged. 

He was trying not to be hurt. He knew emotions were running high. He’d been expecting this. 

“It’s okay,” Jon said, trying to believe the words dropping from his lips. “They’re going through a lot.”

Robb growled a bit. “She shouldn’t speak to you like that. Especially now that she knows -”

“It’s alright Robb. Honestly, I don’t want to think about it.”

Robb still looked upset, but was trying to cover it. “Well, I do have a visitor for you, if you want a distraction.”

Despite himself, Jon felt a small smile light his face. “Where is she?”

Robb grinned a bit. “Let me go get he-”

But Robb was never given a chance to finish his sentence. An excited blur burst into the room, launching at Jon.

He laughed fondly as she wrapped her arms around him.

“You're here!” She was saying. “You’re really really here!”

She latched her arms around Jon’s neck and he spun her around the room. She laughed and squealed. 

“Good to see you too, pipsqueak,” Jon said as he put her down. 

“I’m not a pipsqueak,” she retorted, beaming. 

“Sorry, of course you’re not.”

“I take boxing classes now, could probably beat you up.”

Jon grinned down at his youngest sister. “Alright then, give me your best left hook.”

Arya smiled up at him, then punched Jon right in the thigh. 

“Seven fucking hells, Arya, that hurt!”

And then he was chasing her around the cafeteria, and she was jumping onto the tables, and Robb was laughing. It was like Jon had never left at all. 

Soon enough Jon had to stop for breath, and Arya kicked him in the shin one final time before sitting down next to him. 

She looked at him curiously. “Why do you get to wear a hat inside? Mum made me take my cap off.”

Jon refused to let the mention of Catelyn Stark ruin the moment. “Well, I’m a grown-up, I get to do what I like.”

“Shut up, you’re not a grown up.”

“Am so.”

“You’re just taller than me, you’re not grown up.”

“She’s got you there Jon,” Rob grinned from the sidelines. 

Jon pulled a hair tie off his wrist and snapped it in Robb’s direction. He ducked it, still laughing. 

“Okay,” Arya continued, determined. “But it is a million degrees in here, why are you wearing a knit hat?”

“Can’t I just like how it looks?”

“No.”

Jon grinned. “Alright, but don’t tell anyone.” 

Quickly, he pulled the hat off, pulled out the hair tie, shook his long hair out. 

Arya started to laugh. 

He ran a hand through his long curls a bit sheepishly. “Come on, it’s not that funny.”

She pointed at his hair, still giggling. Jon rolled his eyes, but smiled despite himself.

“Alright, don’t tease me, little sister.”

But she really seemed like she wanted to. “Your long hair is prettier than Sans-”

There was the sound of a door closing quietly. The three of them looked up quickly, and Jon’s stomach dropped a little when he saw who had entered. 

His other little sister, Sansa. 

Her arms were crossed, her shoulders hunched, as if she was drawing into herself. When Jon tried to meet her eyes, she looked away quickly. 

Gods she’d gotten so tall. How long had Jon been away?

Robb stood. “Is everything alright?”

Sansa nodded, looking at everything but Jon. “Mum and Dad told me to come get you. Visiting hours are almost over, we’re going home.”

“Jon should come with us,” Arya piped up quickly, insistently. “Nan was making roast chicken when we left, Jon should come eat dinner with us.”

Jon looked at the ground. He was well aware he would not be welcome. 

Robb, as always, came in for the save. “Jon has to go back to his hotel, but we’ll get breakfast with him in the morning.”

“Why. Why do you have to go back to your hotel? Why can’t you come eat dinner with us?”

“I just can’t Arya.”

“Why? You’re not leaving already? Promise you’re not leaving already.”

Jon looked his youngest sister directly in the eyes. “I promise. I’m not going anywhere. You’ll see me tomorrow.”

From the corner of his eye, Jon thought he saw Sansa flinch a bit at that statement.

But Arya seemed temporarily satisfied at least. She launched herself to her feet with startling speed. “I’m sitting up front in the car!”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “You can’t sit up front, you’ll bother the driver.”

Arya was already running out of the door. “Nuh uh, Jory said he’d teach me to drive.”

Sansa scoffed and turned to follow Arya. But before she left the room, her eyes met Jon’s for a moment. 

They both stared, suspended in the moment. Jon knew he should say something, say he missed her, apologize for leaving. 

But then her eyes dropped, and she left the room, the moment passed. 

Robb sighed and walked over to Jon, held out a hand to help him to his feet. 

“I’m sorry about Sansa. She’s just upset, she’s at that age. She’ll come around.”

Jon hung his head a bit as he stood. “She’s not wrong though. I left without saying goodbye, she has every right to be upset.”

His oldest brother sighed again. “Don’t be so hard on yourself for leaving. If it had been me, if I had learned father had been lying to me my whole life...well I might have left too.”

Somehow Jon doubted that.

Robb’s shiny shoes clicked on the cafeteria tile. This was all so hard. Why did this all have to be so hard?

But then Robb smiled softly. “You know, if we’re leaving now, that means you’ll have half an hour alone before visiting hours are over. If you wanted to - if you wanted to see Bran alone.”

Jon nodded. He did want that. He wanted it very much. 

* * *

The hospital room was golden in the setting sun. Jon had pulled up an old storybook on his phone, a story he used to read to Bran every night. The beeping of the machines faded into the background as Jon read the words. 

It was lonely being here, devastating seeing Bran like this, sad being here at all. But still, Jon was glad that he was here. Home. 

“And so the boy had to find a friendly giant, one who knew how to enchant the ice. So he gathered his warmest furs, and set out for north as north goes-”

The door slammed open. Jon started and looked up. 

A massive man stood in the doorway, with a bushy mane of red hair that stood up in all directions. An unkempt beard adorned his face, and there was something a bit wild in his deep blue eyes. 

Jon would have been alarmed if not for the white coat the man wore, with the telltale linked chain pin on one pocket that marked him as a Maester with medical certifications. 

Jon stood quickly. “Is there something I can do for you, Maester?”

The man’s eyes were darting around, looking for something. “Visiting hours are over, boy.”

“Oh, I thought I still had 15 minutes. Let me just get my things together and say goodbye.”

“It’s fine. But do you happen to know where the patient’s MRIs got to?”

“No I don’t. Don’t you have all that on file somewhere?”

The Maester waved a hand in Jon’s direction. “There was a mixup in the records room, you know how things are.”

Jon nodded. Everything today had been hectic to say the least. 

The man moved around to the table by the bed, rummaged through the manilla folder sitting on it. 

Jon knew he needed to leave, let the medical professionals take care of Bran. He sighed, then bent to drop a kiss to his little brother’s forehead. 

The Maester’s head snapped up. “Don’t touch him!”

For the barest moment as Jon’s lips brushed Bran’s skin, he felt cold. A cold that was deep, and dark, and terrifying. A cold that was familiar. 

But then the Maester shoved Jon back roughly, and the cold was gone. 

Jon shook himself, tried to get a sense of what had just happened. Why the in the seven hells had a Maester of all people shoved him?

The man cleared his throat. “You should be careful not to touch your brother. He’s in a delicate state, we don’t want him catching any germs.”

The man wouldn’t meet Jon’s eyes. Jon noticed, for the first time, that the white coat was too tight around his broad shoulders. 

He looked at the embroidered name on the pocket under the linked chain. Jon didn’t know how he knew, for just a moment ago the name hadn’t looked strange. But now Jon knew, with complete certainty, that this man’s name was not “Maester Wolkan.”

Jon took threatening steps towards the man. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m a Maester, I have a coat and everything.”

Jon kept advancing. “Why the hell are you in here?!”

Before the man could answer, the intercom near the ceiling crackled to life. “There is a possible unauthorized entry in the private wing. Nurses be on the lookout for anyone without a proper pass.”

The man sprang for the door, quicker than Jon could catch. 

“Hey!” Jon yelled. “Where do you think you’re going?!”

The man simply ran, door swinging behind him as he fled.

Jon burst into the hallway, meaning to follow him. 

But he was gone. 

Along with the manilla folder from Bran’s bedside. 


	3. Chapter 3

After a seemingly endless talk with the hospital security team, during which Jon talked through the incident at least five times, finally he was able to call Ygritte. By the time she pulled up in their bat up van, the sun had long since dropped below the horizon. 

He slid into the car. Ygritte was alone, quickly explaining that Gren and Orell were eating back at the hotel. 

Jon had just nodded, buckled his seat belt, and stared out the window at dark trees and bright lights as she drove.

“So how was it?”

He shifted uncomfortably. 

Ygritte glanced over, continued cautiously. “I mean you’re quieter than a mouse in a sept right now. I know you’re not always a fan of intense conversation, but if you do need to talk about it, I’m here.”

They had driven outside the small Wintertown uban center already. The trees outside were dark, dotted only occasionally with flashes of electric lights from lonely little cabins. He wondered what lived in those woods, suddenly wanted to just run deep into them and never face hospitals or security teams or Starks ever again. 

But Jon had done enough running in his life. 

He sighed as he spoke. “It was strange to be honest. It was good to see Rob, and Arya. But I’d forgotten what it was like. To be with my...parents. And Bran’s not in good shape. I just - I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry Jon.”

They rode in silence for several more minutes, the only sound the crunch of the tires and a light rock song over the radio. It was a lonely road, only one other pair of headlights from a small truck following them. Jon almost thought he saw something chasing them through the trees too, little flashes of white here and there.

“We all love you, Jon. Grenn and Orell and me. I just want to make sure you know that.”

Jon turned away from the window. Ygritte glanced at him, trying to keep her eyes on the road. But the sympathy in that glance made Jon almost want to cry.

He nodded, throat tight. “I love you all too.”

* * *

Jon’s sleep was fitful that night. 

At first he thought perhaps it was the old motel mattress, even it was comfortable next to the floors and couches and car seats he’d slept on these past few years. But even when he found deep sleep, his dreams were strange. 

The only thing he recognized was Bran in the hospital, he flashed back to that room again and again and again. But in between, he’d see places he’d never been and people he’d never met. He felt tight clothes on his body he’d never experienced the like of, felt blood on his face, felt a cold he could barely fathom deep in his bones. There were faces flickering on the edges of his vision, and he walked and walked and walked. Until finally he was at the base of a great tree, the tallest he’d ever seen, a tree that glared at him and reached out to touch him with blood red leaves. He stretched out his hand, wanting to feel the cool textured bark beneath his fingertips. The tree seemed to pulse in excitement, anticipation. He just needed to get closer closer closer closer.

_Don’t._

A strange, urgent, familiar voice rang through his eardrums. He felt his heart jump through his chest, jerked back, fell -

Jon jolted and woke up suddenly.

The sun was just barely peaking over the horizon. Gren was snoring softly, Orell sleeping like the dead, Ygritte shifting in her blankets as she dreamed. 

Jon turned, tried to get comfortable, find sleep again. But the dream had unsettled him, and the sight of Bran small and sickly in that hospital bed kept running through his mind. 

He sighed, tiptoed his way around the room, and quietly dressed for a run. 

* * *

  
  


Jon’s running shoes slapped against the dark asphalt, cold air burning in his lungs. It had been a long time since he’d been on a run like this, among the pines and hills where he’d grown up. It was comforting. There were painful memories here, yes, but good ones too. 

He turned a corner, the asphalt under his feet becoming packed dirt. He passed a blurred sign on his right; without even looking at it he knew what it said. _Winterfell Historic Nature Preserve._

He’d grown up in these woods. Had spent hours riding dirt bikes with Rob, climbing trees with Bran, being chased by Arya with water guns. If he kept running, ran 10 miles up this path, he’d catch sight of old Winterfell itself. 

The ancient castle was one of the few of it’s era still standing. Parts of it acted as a museum for tourists, other parts were where the ridiculous and ceremonial old world Stark business was carried out. But at the rear of the great old house was an updated modem residence where his family spent their lives. Right now, Ned Stark was probably sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, mulling on politics happening half a world away. 

Maybe he should turn around. Even though this preserve was a public park, he didn’t want to be caught somewhere and found unwelcome. 

He saw a flash of white through the trees. His steps stuttered. 

Jon knew there were plenty of wild animals in these woods. He looked around, moving slowly, looking sharply at any movement from the trees. 

There was a rustling to his right. Jon turned. 

A wolf stood amongst the leaves and the mist. It’s fur was white as snow, it’s eyes red as blood. 

Jon knew he should feel afraid. 

He didn’t. 

After a moment, the animal turned and disappeared into the trees. 

* * *

As Jon ran back to the motel, he spotted a shiny blue car distinctly too nice for the lot it stood in, parked right in front of the door to his room. A young man was leaning against it. 

Robb. 

He smiled as he saw Jon jogging up. “Good to know you’re still constantly tramping about in the woods.”

Jon smiled in return, put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “If I’d known you’d be here for breakfast this early,” he gasped out, “I would have kept the tramping to a minimum.”

At this, Robb’s smile froze a bit. Jon noticed, abruptly, that Arya was not in the car.

He straightened up. “You’re not here for breakfast, are you?”

Robb sighed. “Well, we can still go afterward but...I came to get you because father wants to speak with you.”

Jon’s nails bit into the palm of his hand. “Oh does he?”

“Someone from the police came to see him this morning about the trespasser last night, and they want a statement from you.”

“I already gave my statement to hospital security, I don’t know why I have to do it again.”

“Because father’s asking.”

“Well he’s not my father, is he?”

“Jon, it won’t take long. And I know you have your reasons for not wanting to go up to the house or talk to him, but this is ultimately for Bran’s protection. Doesn’t that make it worth it?”

Well Robb had him there. But Jon didn't have to like it. 

He ran a hand through his sweaty hair. “Give me 15 minutes to shower and dress.”

* * *

  
  


As Robb drove his sporty little car quickly around the turns and hills of Wintertown, Jon tried to tell himself the unpleasant coil in his stomach was just carsickness. “Could you take the turns a bit slower?”

Robb eased up on the gas a bit, but was still too fast for Jon’s liking. He checked the mirrors, at least they were on a sparsely trafficked road. A red truck was following them at a distance, but that was all.

Robb was talking about the car’s speed, and the horsepower, and how well it performed under tight conditions. Jon could barely focus on a word of it. 

They crested a hill, and suddenly there it was. The old grey castle that Jon had sworn he’d never see again.

That unpleasant coil in his stomach grew tighter. 

Security let Robb through easily, he didn’t even have to slow the car down. The tires crunched as they sped across old gravel. Jon was trying his best not to feel sick. 

Robb parked. Jon knew he needed to get out of the car, go into the grand old building. But he found himself frozen, unable to move. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be fine,” Robb was saying. “Mother’s already at the hospital. You’ll be able to just walk up to father’s office, talk to this inspector, and we’ll be speeding off to a diner with Arya within the hour.”

Jon gave a half hearted grin. “I’m fine with all that, so long as we speed a little slower?”

Robb smiled. “Well, no promises. Arya likes to go about 90. But I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Upon exiting the car, Jon was met by Mr. Poole and told to follow close. It became clear quickly that they were heading towards Ned Stark’s official office, in the older part of the castle. 

Jon had always found these halls intimidating, even as a child. All the ancient tapestries and stone statues and carved wolves in the beams seemed to stare down at him, all of them asking _What the hell are you doing here?_

Finally, they came to the giant oak wooden doors. The wood had been carved with scenes from Stark history hundreds of years before Jon had even been born. 

Mr. Poole knocked. 

“Come in.”

The doors opened, and Jon braced himself. 

Ned Stark sat behind the ancient wooden desk. Across from him sat a squirrely looking man in an crisp suit who Jon didn’t recognize. 

Ned stood when Jon entered. The other man didn’t offer the same courtesy. 

“It’s good to see you Jon,” Ned was saying. “Thank you for coming. This is Mr. Slynt-”

“Inspector Slynt, if you don’t mind Lord Stark,” the squirrely man cut in. 

Ned cleared his throat. “This is Inspector Slynt, he has a few questions about the trespasser in the hospital last night.”

The door shut behind Jon. 

He’d always been uncomfortable in this room. Yes, it had a few modern touches. The electric lights, the computer on the desk, the file cabinet in the corner. But most of the room had an austere age-old feel that chilled Jon’s blood. 

He cleared his throat. “I already gave a statement to hospital security.”

“Well,” the inspector said. “I’m with the Bureau of Internal Investigation, and at the Bureau of Internal Investigation we do not like to rely on interviews conducted by others.”

Jon got the sense this man found himself incredibly important. He lowered himself into one of the office's impossibly uncomfortable chairs. “What do you want to know?”

Inspector Slynt flipped open a small notepad. “Let’s start from the start. Your name is Jon Stark, correct?”

“Jon Snow, actually.” He carefully avoided looking in Ned Stark’s direction. “I had it changed last year.”

“Hmm, interesting. And why were you visiting Brandon Stark?”

“He’s family, I wanted to see him after his accident.”

“Is that so? From what I hear you haven’t lived in this area or had much contact with your family for the past several years.”

Jon felt anger rising in his chest. “Look, I don’t know what you’re suggesting, but I had authorization to be there, ask Robb if you don’t believe me.”

The Inspector shifted in his chair a bit. “Can you describe the trespasser?”

“He was tall, over six feet easily. He had red hair, a long beard. Spoke with a territorial accent.”

“And you’ve never seen him before?”

Something in the man had felt bizarrely familiar for a brief moment, but Jon felt that was best left unmentioned. “No, I’d never seen him before.”

“From my understanding, you’ve spent a lot of time in the past few years up in the territories. You even checked into the hospital with a Territorial Identification Card.”

“Yeah, and again, I’d never seen him before.”

“Be that as it may-”

“Mr. Slynt,” Ned Stark cut in. “I think we’ve had quite enough of this line of questioning. Jon’s a trusted member of the family, let’s leave it at that. Can you move on?”

The inspector sniffed unpleasantly and wrote something down in his notebook. “Of course Lord Stark.”

After a moment, he looked back up at Jon, eyes a bit unpleasant. “Did the trespasser say anything to you?”

“He was pretending to be a maester, was looking for some of Bran’s files. MRI’s I think. Asked me if I'd seen them.”

“Anything else?”

“No.” But that wasn’t right. “Wait, yes actually. He told me not to touch Bran.”

The inspector hummed. He opened a briefcase, took out a few black and white photos, and placed them on the desk in front of Jon. 

Looking closer, they were mugshots. Familiar eyes stared out of them.

“Is this the man you saw, Mr. Snow?”

Jon nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah I’m fairly certain.”

“Well then. This man is Tormund Grenader. He’s suspected of trespassing into several private institutions, and we believe he’s stolen some historical items that may be of value to various Great Houses. He’s often known to revisit the same place more than once, so if you see him again, Mr. Snow, give my office a call.”

Inspector Slynt pressed a small white card into Jon’s hand. 

“Please be in touch if you have any more information for me. Do I have your leave to go, Lord Stark?”

Jon knew Ned hated it when people asked permission to enter and exit, like something out of an old upstairs/downstairs movie. But in this case, Ned just nodded. He looked so tired. 

The inspector stood, and shook Ned Stark’s hand. 

“It was a true pleasure to meet you, Lord Stark, and see your lovely ancient home. These old castles are truly impressive. I study them in my spare time, truly remnants of a magnificent era.”

“Thank you. That’s very interesting,” Ned responded disinterestedly. “Have a nice day, Inspector.”

Out of politeness, Jon put his hand to shake as well. Inspector Slynt pointedly looked away.

“Again, contact me with any new information. Thank you.”

The door shut behind him. Jon stared after it for a moment, then moved to get up and leave as well.

“Jon, wait.” Ned sounded tired. “Could you stay and talk to me for a moment?”

He sat heavily back in his chair. It was difficult to look at Ned’s face. “What about?”

“What do you mean what about? I haven’t seen you for years, you haven’t called me, haven't written. I want to see if you’re alright.”

Jon stared at his lap. “I’ve been well enough.”

Ned sighed. “Jon, I know we left things badly. And I do wish, truly, with everything in me, that I had told you before. But for the gods sake, I’m your father-”

“You aren’t though,” Jon bit out, more bitter than he’d intended. “That’s the whole root of it. You aren’t.”

There was silence for a few endless moments. Ned seemed to have no idea what to say.

Jon ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he began. “I didn’t want to have this conversation now. I know you’re going through a lot. And if it's too much to have me here in town on top of everything, I understand.”

“You can stay here as long as you like. I always have time for you, Jon.”

It was all Jon could do not to laugh. “You say that. But then at the hospital you would barely look at me."

Ned didn't respond.

Jon truly had not wanted to have this conversation now. But being in this old room, staring at his false father's face, was causing old anger to rise fresh. "I just can’t believe you never told me. That you thought I’d never find out on my own, thought I’d never look at my own damn birth certificate.”

Ned sighed again. “I wanted to tell you, I knew I’d have to eventually, before you went off to university. I just kept putting it off I suppose. Things were so good here-”

The anger in Jon's chest suddenly had teeth. “Were things good? Were they good, with me thinking I was your bastard, barely tolerated by your wife, only given your last name and allowed to live here out of pity?”

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth, but didn’t know what to say to soften them. 

Ned looked shocked. Jon felt his fury deflate, freeze.

The silence returned. Lasted too long. 

“Is that really how you felt?” Ned whispered finally. 

Guilt settled in, thick and heavy, tempered with a twinge of new anger at himself for feeling guilty when he had every right to be upset.

Jon sighed. “No, not always, but was hard sometimes. And it became even harder when I learned none of it had been true in the first place.”

Ned nodded, looked away. “I did it to protect her reputation. She was my sister, and I loved her with all my heart." He smiled softly. "I see a lot fo her in you."

Jon looked down, shifted from one foot to the other. He didn't know how to hear about a mother he'd never known.

Ned was still talking. "-I know I should never have kept it a secret from the children, from Cat. Especially not from you. I’m truly sorry Jon.”

He stared at his uncle (and it was still odd to think of him as an uncle) for a long moment. He twisted a hand in the end of his plaid shirt, unsure what to do.

Finally, he said three words.

“What’s his name?”

Ned Stark’s head snapped up. 

“Jon, no-”

“You _must_ realize how unnerving it is to not know. The spot on the birth certificate was blank. But I deserve to know who my father is. Please.”

Ned breathed out slow, then stood. Went around the desk to sit next to Jon. Looked at him with soft, concerned eyes.

“Listen to me. You do deserve to know, but that man does not deserve to know you. He’s not your father, and it’s better he’s not in your life.”

Frustration bubbled up sharp in Jon’s chest. “Shouldn’t that be for me to decide?”

His uncle sighed again. “Jon, this is for your own protection-”

“No,” Jon said, standing abruptly. “No, how can I believe you’re sorry for lying to me when you still won’t tell me the truth?”

The silence dropped in heavy over the room one last time. 

“Coming here was a mistake,” Jon said finally, mumbling to the floor. “I’ll see you at the hospital.”

“Jon, wait-”

But Jon had already gone.

* * *

Robb kept his word. Within the hour, he and Jon and Arya were eating pancakes at one of the best diners in Wintertown. Jon was trying his best to push the conversation with his uncle out of his mind, to be cheery and ridiculous for his siblings sake. 

Arya seemed to buy it. Robb did not. 

When she got up to ask the kitchen for whipped cream to decorate her pancakes, Robb leaned towards Jon with eyes too full of understanding. “You alright?”

Jon nodded tightly. “Alright as can be expected.” He glanced away from Robb, staring at the cars parked across the street. White van, green sedan, red pickup truck. The last one looked a bit familiar. 

“Jon,” Robb was saying. “You know you can talk to me about it, right?”

He nodded, turning back to face Robb. “I know. And I will later. But can we leave it for right now? I just want to enjoy breakfast.”

“I just don’t want you to-”

Arya came barreling back towards the table. Jon and Robb plastered smiles on their faces. 

“Did they have what you were looking for, little sister?” Jon asked, voice a bit too bright. 

Arya scrunched her nose. “I’m not little. And yes, they had whipped cream.” To prove her point, she pressed the nozzle and began to absolutely coat her pancakes in it.

Jon made an over the top disgusted face. “I don’t know how you can eat that stuff.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’d like it if you just tried it. Watch.” At this, Arya moved to spray Jon’s pancakes as well, getting some cream on Jon’s shirt for good measure. 

He laughed with genuine humor. Around Arya, a bad mood could never last long. “Oh you little demon, you’ll pay for that one.” At this, Jon grabbed the can and sprayed a burst of whipped cream Arya’s way. She laughed as it hit her, and Robb shook his head with a smile. “I swear, I can’t take the two of you anywhere.”

Too soon, they were finishing their pancakes and settling the bill. Jon and Robb made sure to tip a bit extra; the whipped cream had made a bit of a mess. 

As Robb went up to the counter to pay, and Arya headed on a quick bathroom trip, Jon endeavored to wipe the table down a bit. As he did, he caught sight of that red truck again. 

Jon was oddly sure he’d seen it before. In fact, he was certain he had. It had been behind them on the road this morning. 

Then suddenly, as Jon looked at the truck, he glanced in the window of the coffee shop behind it, and saw a familiar figure that made him freeze.

“Jon?” 

He jumped a bit. Robb was next to him, touching his shoulder. Arya was heading out of the bathroom, clearly ready to go. 

“Jon, I just asked if we could drive you back to the motel?”

He found himself shaking his head. “No, no that’s alright. It’s in walking distance, and it’s been a long while since I walked around Wintertown.”

Robb nodded. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah of course. I’ll see you later at the hospital.”

They exited the diner, and Jon hugged them both goodbye. As he watched them drive away, he took a deep breath, trying to decide what to do.

This was a stupid idea. Forcing a confrontation alone, when he didn’t have to? A monumentally stupid idea. 

He was going to do it anyway.

Jon gathered his courage, put on his meanest look, and stormed over to the coffee shop across the street. 

The bell on the door rang lightly as Jon entered. The familiar redheaded figure looked up, blue eyes growing huge as he saw who stood in the doorway. 

Jon let the door swing shut, walked over to the table slowly and purposefully. He pulled out a chair, letting it scrape on the floor, and sat down. Directly across from the infamous trespasser, the man Inspector Slynt had called Tormund Grenader.

“So,” Jon said, voice hard. “You want to tell me why you’re following me?”


End file.
